


Strike the Pose

by Woldy



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Community: kink_bingo, F/F, Fashion & Couture, POV Female Character, Power Dynamics, Public Sex, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-06 02:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda chooses these outfits according to some whim of her own, but there is always bare skin at Andy’s shoulders and plenty of room for manoeuvre beneath the skirts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike the Pose

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt ‘costumes’ in [my kink_bingo card](http://woldy.livejournal.com/44088.html). This is my first attempt at writing in this fandom and the fic isn’t beta-ed, so I apologize for any mistakes.

Andy perches on the sink in front of her bathroom mirror, squinting at herself in the dim light. It’s not up to the standards of _Runway_, whose makeup artists demanded multiple lamps and magnifying mirrors, but it’ll do. This isn’t the important bit, after all; this is just in preparation. A heady sense of anticipation is running through her already: making her jittery, making her wet.

Swipe of brown eye-shadow, left, right. Andy deftly adds a darker colour over the top and blends it into the crease. A slick line of kohl is drawn along the lash-line, which Andy considers and then extends, adding a dramatic sweep above each cheekbone.

Andy does all this in her underwear, lest the process crease her outfit or - worse yet - leave a marks. One of the _Runway_ girls stained a cream dress from Balenciago with an ugly smudge of mascara and she was fired before the end of the week. Not that Miranda can fire Andy now, given that she’s been working at the _New York Mirror_ for six months and it’s far too late for Miranda to revoke that letter of recommendation. Besides, this dress isn’t from the cupboard at _Runway_, it’s from the designer - or that’s what Andy guesses. She can’t be certain, because the outfits are always delivered to her flat by courier, accompanied by a hand-written note from Miranda specifying the time and date.

She hesitates over the colour of lipstick, remembering the shade of the dress. Pink, she decides, because red would be too bright with these tones, even if it is on-trend. If there’s one thing she learned from Emily it’s that one has to build a look that co-ordinates, not a crazy collage of parts.

Blush is swirled onto her right cheek, then the left, in a quick smooth gesture. It took her an hour to complete her makeup the first time, indecisive about the colours and hands shaking, but she’s got better with practice. Everything about these assignations with Miranda has improved with practice.

Andy takes a final look at herself in the mirror, her face immaculate but wearing nothing except her underwear, and approves. She walks back to her bedroom and unhooks the dress from where it it hangs gleaming on the clothes rail, the fabric rustling as it falls heavily over her fingers. She unzips the dress and steps into it, feeling the silk against her naked skin as she slides the dress up over her bust. It’s awkward reaching back to slide up the tiny zip, but she tugs it into place and wriggles a little so that the dress falls snugly into place around her breasts.

Miranda chooses these outfits according to some whim of her own, but there is always bare skin at Andy’s shoulders and plenty of room for manoeuvre beneath the skirts. They’ve taken advantage of that in the past, Miranda pushing her back against the soft leather as the driver speeds them through the rain-slicked city streets, Miranda’s hand coiling and uncoiling between her legs. Miranda has taken her out to dinner on a rooftop overlooking Central Park and gazed impassively into the middle distance as her fingers trailed damply up Andy’s leg and then slyly pushed a lychee inside her, pursing her lips when Andy gasped in shock. She retrieved it later, of course, with her tongue, but Andy will never forget the awkwardness of walking out of the restaurant with her muscles clenched around part of their dessert.

Andy adjusts the line of her strapless bra, checks it again in the mirror, and then reaches under the skirt to slip off her panties. That’s been one of Miranda’s rules from the start and it’s practical for fashion reasons as well as sex. Why search the world over for underwear with a smooth seam when you could remove the problem entirely?

She glances at the clock which reads 7:58 and grabs her shoes, balancing carefully on one leg as she toes them on. This part of the outfit is Andy’s and hers alone - she’s walked a mile in Miranda’s shoes already, thank you very much, and her own are far more comfortable. Besides, these are Manolo Blahnik and she’s been saving up her paycheques for months to enjoy this moment. Not everything about _Runway_ is easy to give up.

Andy throws a coat around her shoulders and hurries out the door, clacking down the stairs to where the car is waiting. The climax won’t be until the end of the evening, but her pulse quickens as the sight of Miranda through the dark glass of the window. It takes a lot of experience to read approval on Miranda’s face, just the tiniest twitch of her cheek, but Andy sees it.

Miranda tilts her head down and sends Andy that _look_ over the rim of the sunglasses, assessing, calculating and with more heat than Andy had thought she was capable of before this started. Popular opinion is certainly wrong on that front: Miranda’s not an ice lady, she’s just exacting and meticulous. After all, there’s no frisson in deshabille unless one begun the evening looking perfect.

_Yes_, Andy thinks, as the driver hurries to open the car door and she meets Miranda’s eyes directly for the first time that night, _this is precisely what I want._


End file.
